Choices
by Pink Bunny Ears
Summary: Anime-verse. Klippen falls.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This was written in a long period of being sick and frustrated with the world. I know it's no excuse to publish it.**_

… _ **Really, my only answer to the question "Why even publish it?" is "Why not? There are worse things out there." So… ummm... t** **he author is sorry for everything.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**_

 _ ***Runs***_

* * *

Klippen was shaking by the time he actually reached the ground.

His legs were wobbly with lingering weakness, a long period of inactivity and barely suppressed fear, and as he tried to make a step they gave out on him, leaving on his knees in the deep snow. With his side vision he saw the ladder roll up, and allowed himself a small sigh of relief and a brief moment of respite. Then he resolutely pushed himself onto his feet and stumbled through the snow, half-expecting an arrow in his back, even if he knew that there wouldn't be any.

Sure enough, it never came.

The trip back, really not a long one once upon a time, seemed endless. Klippen found something at least resembling a path, which his robbers seemed to use for the transportation of the goods once the snow began to melt, but it wasn't a clear one as it still had patches of deep snow that collapsed beneath his boots and caused him to lose his already unsteady footing. He gritted his teeth, clutched onto trees, fell onto trees, pushed himself onto his feet over and over again. And he trudged on.

In some places, when he misstepped, the snow was deep enough to reach his waist and even chest, and he climbed out of these traps with steady determination. Even knee-deep, the snow slowed him down considerably, weighing his feet down and hindering his movements. His leg was already beginning to throb, reminding him that it was no longer used to such strain.

Perhaps he should have agreed to pass over the Hell's Gap after all, he considered, then shuddered and pushed the horrible thought away. He wasn't planning to approach that particular precipice anytime soon – or any other for that matter – as long as he could help it.

"I will notify Mattis that you are coming then," Borka had said. "So that he could meet you mid-way."

The suggestion had sent him into a state of near-panic. Mattis wasn't the most reasonable man at best of times. There was no telling what welcome he was about to get at his half of the castle, considering the terms of his imprisonment.

He would have never entertained the thought a few months back, but Borka, his robbers and even his snake spawn Birk – especially him – had eventually proven to be surprisingly reasonable about the whole situation, which had sent his mind reeling and the world as he knew it firmly off kilter. It didn't help that he had weeks to observe, compare and contemplate.

Right now, the thought of Borka witnessing Mattis' reaction, which would probably be blown out of all proportion, brought the unexpected feeling of shame. If he were to be disciplined and yelled at he'd rather it happened in the privacy of their hall.

"There's no need," he had said. "I know the way and I won't get lost."

Borka had measured him up, unreadable, then shrugged.

"As you wish."

Klippen was regretting the spontaneous decision now. It might have been one of the most stupid things he had ever done in his life and he could only hope that it wouldn't be the last.

The pain in his leg climbed up steadily. He gritted his teeth and hoped it would hold.

He could have sobbed in relief when he finally saw the Wolf's Neck.

He quickened his pace, stumbled, fell, cursed, got up again. The climb into the gap had been rather short but torturous, and he was ready to collapse from exhaustion.

There were no watchmen in the Wolf's Neck. He stared at the post, almost the same level with the ground now that the snow had elevated it, feeling strangely betrayed, even if he understood logically that they couldn't have known he was coming back today. The wave of disappointment washed over him. He almost gave into the desire to just fall back and lie there, but the thought that he might not have the strength to get up again and that no one might find him until spring came was enough to hold him back.

Despondent, he continued his journey at a much slower pace. The path had never seemed so long before, even if, ironically enough, it was actually shorter with the rock climb now completely covered with snow. Something uncurled in him at the realization and he breathed a little easier for a while, before mentally measuring the distance he had yet to cover and becoming morose once again.

The quiet sullenness at the seemingly endless trial was soon replaced by apathy, as he concentrated at simply putting one foot in front of the other and couldn't muster up the strength or the willpower for anything else. It felt as if his body was detached from his mind, in a way. The angry pulsing in his leg became a distant ache. His arms, too heavy to lift, hang limply by his sides, and he would occasionally find that he had closed his eyes without actually remembering doing that. He forced them open every time, because not seeing meant even less steady footing, and he knew that if he fell, he probably wouldn't be able to get up again.

When the castle emerged from behind a wall, he didn't allow himself the chance to pause, rest for a moment and contemplate the distance, still concentrating on walking.

He didn't make it all the way there.

He hadn't registered that the castle actually became closer when the heavy doors opened and someone started running to him down the path.

Apparently there was still watch on the wall, even if the Wolf's Neck was deserted.

For some reason the thought was enough to drain the remaining strength out of his unsteady knees and he sank down onto them, his limbs leaden and eyelids heavy. He felt numb and content just sitting like that, detachedly watching his friends approach and in no hurry to actually go anywhere.

Right now seemed like a good moment to lie down and close his eyes, to hell with everything, but before he had the chance Sturkas fell onto his knees in front of him, grabbing a firm hold on his shoulders with both hands, his face openly worried as he called his name. There were other hands touching him, other voices calling him and asking how he got out and if he was alright, thanking whatever forces they could think of that he was alive, but he didn't trust his voice to reply and replying seemed like too much of an effort anyway.

The warmth from the hands holding him upright seeped into his shoulders.

He hadn't realized how cold he was until he started shaking. Violently.

The voices surrounding him grew alarmed and the grip on his body shifted, one arm sliding behind his shoulders to support his back. He was propped against Sturkas' chest, trembling too hard to object or do anything about it, and the other arm moved to free his legs from underneath him, which was apparently not an easy task with his body clenched on itself so tightly.

Sturkas cursed above his head and someone – Jutis – moved to help. Together they managed his body into a somewhat workable position, and soon he was being lifted like a sick child, one arm behind his back and the other under his legs.

Familiar shame washed over him at being handled like that, highlighted by how unnecessary it was. He was conscious and perfectly capable of walking on his own, thank you very much. He just needed a breather.

But as he tried to illustrate the point he couldn't get enough control of his cramped muscles to work, which annoyed him and intensified his humiliation. His eyes stung with it on top of everything else and he clenched them shut, still unable to speak. He only managed a small sound of protest – he hated how helpless it sounded - which was quickly shushed.

Sturkas responded to offers of help with a quick "Nah, I've got him" and was already walking, his strides swift but careful. The warmth seeped into his side, and he curled into it despite himself, his body unwilling to respond to his commands.

"Pelje, go get Lovis," Fjosok's voice commanded from somewhere not too far behind them, and immediately someone hurried away, announced by the sound of the snow breaking under his boots.

"I'll see if she needs help."

"Me too!"

Two pairs of footsteps joined the first one. He opened his eyes in time to see the retreating backs of Pelje, Tjegge and Tjorm as they ran full speed into the castle.

'Don't be so dramatic,' he wanted to say. 'It's really not that bad. You are acting as if I'm about to keel over and die any moment now.'

But even if he could, they were already gone and there was no point.

The journey to the gate didn't take nearly as long as his trip here, and soon the heavy wooden doors slid shut with a creak. Sturkas didn't pause, crossing the yard and walking up the steps leading into the castle with steady determination. Fjosok rushed past him, pushed the doors open.

Scalle-Per, Knotas and Mattis, the latter two sitting at the table, looked up at their entrance and for a moment froze almost comically, their mouths hanging open, as if they had believed him to be dead already. Mattis jumped to his feet, almost knocking the bench over in the process. Out of habit Klippen caught his chief's eyes, not really knowing what to expect there. Burning rage? Disappointment? Disdain?

The one thing he hadn't been expecting was the wide-eyed amazed relief written all over his face.

Sturkas strode over, settled him on the bench opposite the fire, still keeping a firm grip on his shoulders. His feeble attempts to pull away were ignored, so he gave in with a small exasperated sigh. Jutis approached them only a few moments later, settling a warm woolen blanket around him. He burrowed into it gratefully, still trembling like a leaf, and Sturkas' arm, which he had shifted to fit over the blanket, squeezed him briefly before loosening once again.

Scalle-Per looked somewhat worse for the wear since the last time he'd seen him, but his smile was warm as he observed him from the perch near the fireplace, the dice resting in his hand.

"It's nice to see you again, Klippen," the old man greeted as soon as he had his attention. "I have to admit, we haven't expected it this soon… if ever again. People like Borka should be hanged."

He didn't have a chance to object.

"That's right!" Sturkas agreed, his voice suddenly loud and angry. "Just look at him – he's all skin and bones. I swear to the devil, those dirty bastards hadn't given him an ounce of the food they had stolen from us!"

Mattis leapt to his feet from his spot on Klippen's other side, his face twisted in rage.

"Is that true?" he questioned, and Klippen shrank back against Sturkas when that burning gaze bore straight into him. All the explanations died on his lips. Mattis' face darkened even more, and with an enraged roar he grabbed the tankard of mead from the table and threw it across the grand hall to crash against the wall. "That swine! The next time I see him, I won't be so kind! He will have an arrow sticking out of his forehead in no time, that's for sure!" He looked for more things to throw, and his eyes fell on the meat on the table in front of Knotas – apparently the robbers had just had their meal and Knotas had yet to finish his. Realizing what was about to happen, Knotas grabbed the larger piece of ham and took cover behind one of the chests as the rest of his dinner was sent flying to land next to the tankard.

Miserable, Klippen hunched over, trying to make himself as small as possible. Headache was already beginning to blossom under his brow from all the noise, he was still cold and, to be honest, barely had the energy to hold himself upright anymore. If it hadn't been for the arm still wrapped around him, he would have probably slid to the floor. Right now he only wished that everyone be quiet and let him sleep. He didn't want to deal with this.

"What is all this racket?" he had never been so happy to hear Lovis' voice. "Mattis, if you can't control yourself, go crash something outside. Just be quiet and don't forget to fix everything after you're done."

There was a short staredown after which Mattis came over to sit heavily on one of the benches. Knotas emerged from behind the chest with some of his meal intact and settled at the table again, out of everyone's way. He made no move to actually eat it though.

The rustle of fabric announced Lovis' movement as she crossed the hall to stand in front of Klippen, her dark attentive eyes looking him over. A small frown creased her forehead, but she didn't say anything. Her hand pressed against his brow and he flinched back instinctively, before he even realized what he was doing. Her frown deepened, and the darkening air in the room was almost tangible as it pressed down on him. He felt every eye scrutinize him and lowered his gaze to fix firmly on his lap.

He had no wish to explain anything.

"Are you injured?" Lovis asked in a calm, but not unkind voice with no hint of pity.

He shook his head.

"Tired," he croaked out, his own voice sounding alien.

"Fjosok, Tjorm, I need more water from the stream. Go gather it. Sturkas, Tjegge, Jutis, take a bed from upstairs and bring it down here. Knotas, Labbas, collect more wood for the fire from the storage. Pelje, take more blankets from the chests and put them next to the fire to warm up. Be careful not to singe them. Mattis, if you want to make yourself useful, go see if your robbers need help handling the bed."

It was a testament to their mood that they set about their tasks with no complaints, no delay and no hint of displeasure. If anything, they looked almost eager to get busy. The thought warmed him a little.

Soon the room was emptied, leaving only Lovis, Scalle-Per, Klippen and Pelje who was rummaging in the chests.

Klippen's clothes and boots were wet from the melted snow and had to be removed. He insisted on doing that himself, but his movements were too clumsy, his leg buckled under him and the room tilted dangerously as soon as he got up, so he had to sit back immediately. Lovis moved to help him at once, silencing his unvoiced protest with a single look.

He wasn't thrilled about anyone seeing him unclothed, but there wasn't anything he could do about it, and at least he didn't have to undress in front of a crowd. A small gasp resounded in the hall as his shirt was dragged over his head, and Scalle-Per's eyes went wide. Lovis' face remained unreadable, but her piercing eyes skimmed over him in a way that made him feel exposed. Self-conscious, Klippen wrapped his arms around his torso. He could only imagine how it looked, with the scars from the fall marring his skin and his ribs sticking out.

Thankfully, a silent Pelje rushed forward almost immediately to wrap a blanket around him. Klippen looked into his face and almost choked at the open, earnest concern and sadness written all over it. Pelje met his stare unflinching, smiled at him with that warm sincere smile that he always seemed to have at his disposal, straightened the blanket and squeezed his shoulder briefly before stepping back.

Eventually Klippen's boots and pants were removed as well and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself for modesty as well as warmth. Lovis visited the kitchen and returned with a bowl, a cutting desk, a knife and some herbs, sat down and began to chop methodically. Klippen leaned back against the table, the tremors still not abating, and Pelje lowered himself onto the bench next to him, wordlessly offering his shoulder for support. After a moment he accepted, too exhausted to hold onto pride this time. Besides, this was Pelje. It was easy to let down your guard around Pelje.

"It has been really quiet here without you," Pelje told him. "I mean, of course, we still fight with each other over who has to fetch water and groan about having to clean snow all the time… there has been hell of a lot of snow this year! Scalle-Per had warned us and he was right – Fjosok says he always is, the sly old man… Oh, and we still fight when we are bored, of course. But it isn't as fun anymore and our hearts aren't in it, not really. And we barely have anything to do around here. Do you know that Ronja learned how to ski? She used to go out to ski in the forest, spent entire days there, before the snow buried the Wolf's Neck, and then she became trapped with the castle with the rest of us, the unfortunate soul…"

The string of words spoken softly in Pelje's soothing tenor washed over him like a lullaby and soon lost their meaning. The fire was cracking merrily in front of them, and with it came the realization that he was home. He was finally home.

The shaking started again, full force, but this time it wasn't only because of the cold. Arms wrapped around him, one palm rubbing up and down his shoulder.

"Are you still cold?" Pelje asked. "Klippen? Don't worry, everyone will be back soon and you'll warm up in no time. Hey, did I tell you about that time Tjorm threw snow at Lovis' chest?"

He kept talking, on and on, and Klippen clung onto his voice like a lifeline. His chest was heaving with barely suppressed sobs, his eyes were stinging and his cheeks might have been wet with something other than snow, but Pelje kept talking, his tone never wavering, and eventually the worst of it passed, leaving Klippen utterly spent. His headache was blooming full-force now, his eyes refused to stay open, and his body was shaking with a chill of a different kind.

"Took you long enough," Lovis said, and he flinched at the reproach.

"Sorry," Tjegge answered, panting. "It's heavier than it looks."

It took some time for his slugged mind to catch up and realize that Lovis hadn't been talking to him, that Pelje had gone silent and that the sound of footsteps resonated in the room, accompanied by heavy breathing. With an immense effort he half-opened his eyes to observe Mattis, Tjegge and Jutis put the bed on the floor in front of the fireplace, with Mattis holding the foot, Tjegge and Jutis supporting the head and Sturkas kind of hovering uselessly nearby. Then his eyes slid shut again.

"Is he asleep?" Mattis asked.

"He's been drifting on and off," Pelje answered. "He's really tired."

Someone approached him, and he was being picked up, gathered into someone's arms. He thought that he should say something, let everyone know that he was awake and able to walk on his own, but his tongue didn't comply and neither did the rest of his body.

"Put him on his side, facing the fire," Lovis' voice instructed, and he was gently lowered onto the sheets. Immediately he tried to curl up, but a hand on his thigh stopped his movement short. He heard a small complaining sound, realized that it was coming from him, and another hand stroked his hair. The voice remained firm though. "You need to allow the fire to warm your chest first."

He remembered the weight of another blanket settled around him and a hand squeezing his shoulder, and then he fell into comforting darkness where his thoughts didn't follow.

* * *

The great hall was very quiet.

Sturkas didn't entertain much hope that Lovis would allow them to laze off like this all day – after all, there was snow to be cleaned and more work to be done – but for the time being they were gathered around the table and no one told them to leave yet.

Labbas and Knotas returned back with the firewood, only to be greeted by a collective shhhh, and joined their ranks after putting the wood down and feeding the fire as quietly as they possibly could.

Pelje had run up the stairs of the tower to inform Turre of the latest news and tell him to keep a close eye on Borka. Jutis had gone to talk to Joen. Fjosok and Tjorm had yet to return from the stream.

Mattis' uncharacteristic complacency bothered Sturkas a little. At a time like this he would expect his chief to pace and mutter at the very least, seeing that shouting and throwing things was obviously out of question for the moment. But since putting Klippen into the bed Mattis sat next to the fire in complete silence.

Sturkas didn't know what to make of that.

Seeing that no storm was forthcoming for now, he stood and walked to the head of the bed, putting both hands on the headrest and looking down on Klippen. The guy had stopped shivering and his face seemed relaxed in peaceful sleep. Sturkas exhaled softly.

He resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, just to reassure himself that he was indeed alive.

That horrible night haunted Sturkas's dreams for devil knew how long. More times than he could count he would wake up in cold sweat, calling Klippen's name, the scream as he disappeared down that abyss ringing loud in his ears. Even now, as he watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and his mind repeated the endless 'alive alive alive', he still couldn't forget that scream. He doubted he ever would.

It had been a stupid, stupid plan and they never should have gone along with it. His hands gripped the headboard in anger that had yet to abate. He inhaled, exhaled, repeated the process. Then he purposefully released his grip, letting his fingers fall gently against the wood. No need to get so worked up about it now.

The weeks following Klippen's supposed death – and what a stupid, useless death that was – had been hell. They hadn't robbed anyone since that sally had failed, hadn't tried anything else to drive Borka out, only leaving the castle to fetch the water. Someone had suggested a deer hunt; they went, eager for distraction, and almost forgot themselves for a short, blissful time. But when they returned, the undeniable hovered even worse than before. No one was in any mood to celebrate. Spent, they had a quiet dinner, then sat in morose silence until Lovis could no longer stand it and sent them off to do something useless, but extremely draining. Sturkas was almost grateful at the time.

For days that followed it was as if all of them had forgotten what laughter was and half of them had forgotten how to speak. Mattis had barely talked to anyone, the darkness around him palpable. Knotas had almost stopped eating. Pelje hadn't smiled once. Labbas had put his guitar into the corner and didn't touch it. Days stretched with no meaning, one after the other, and it seemed never-ending.

Gradually the tense, gloomy aura of something about to explode quietly morphed into the ever-present sadness, only broken by Mattis' occasional bursts of temper. And if somebody woke from a nightmare in the middle of the night, well, it wasn't like anyone was ever awake to witness that. They were all in the same boat.

But the dark cloud still loomed over them, mocking them with an unescapable thought - how easily it could have been avoided.

Well, at least it was mocking him.

He couldn't help but think that it would have been easier to take in if it had been soldiers, or a stray arrow, or anything else really. Even if Klippen had tripped and fell into Hell's Gap due to his own clumsiness, unlikely as it was, it would have been easier. It happened. They could move one from something like this.

But the thought that he had died due to nothing but their sheer stupidity and short-sightedness was unbearable and refused to leave him alone.

He had been there. Along with everyone else, he had pulled the ladder back, the only one to overbalance and fall as it crashed into the roof.

 _He didn't see that happen, but knew the moment it did nonetheless. His stomach plummeted with dread as Klippen's voice abruptly moved away, then, after several long moments, was cut off entirely. The sound of what seemed to be several crashes echoed in the gap._

 _No one moved. The echo died away, leaving complete silence in its wake._

 _The second ladder was gone. His friends were clutching the first one in vise-like grips, their faces white._

 _He felt like being sick._

 _With a roar, Mattis made a step forward, leaning dangerously over the abyss, and at least someone – Joen - had the presence of mind to grab him and pull him away from the edge. This seemed to break everyone out of their stupor. Sturkas joined after a moment with Knotas and Fjosok, and together, they dragged their boss through the hall and into the dungeons, leaving the ladder where it lay._

" _Chief, he's dead, he's dead!" Fjosok yelled out eventually, breathing heavy. Mattis stopped, turning on him, his eyes burning with rage and grief so insane that Fjosok looked ready to step back from the sheer force of it. Still, at least it was a reaction, and Fjosok stood his ground and went on. "You are not going to help anyone if you throw yourself into the gap. Think about Ronja!"_

 _Ronja. What on earth were they going to tell her?_

 _All the fight seemed to drain out of Mattis at the mention of the name. He staggered and stopped. Warily, they released him, but it was as if he didn't even notice that they were there – he stood still for a few moments with an expression of absolute shock, before it turned into blankness and he started walking again, as if in a dream._

 _Hell, Sturkas wished it had been a dream. But his mind knew with a ruthless certainty if he wasn't._

 _Yet oddly, there was still an insane hope living in him, in the part of his being that had yet to accept what had happened as an unchangeable fact. Of course, Klippen couldn't be dead. Klippen and dead just didn't connect. He had to survive the fall somehow. Soon, he would barge into the main hall, shaken but alive, and berate them all for their carelessness and stupidity, for the fear they made him live through. He would whine, they would joke, yell and insult each other and it would all end up in a fight, as always, and then Lovis would yell at them and send them all to do meaningless tasks and the matter would stay in the past as the 'incident only mentions as ammunition'. That was how things were supposed to go._

' _We have to check,' he wanted desperately to suggest. 'We have to make sure that he's really… really… that there's nothing we can do for him.'_

 _But even as he thought it he knew that he was grasping at straws. There was no way anyone could have survived a fall like that, and searching in the Hell's Gap – the place they never ventured to before – even in the light of day could end up disastrously for them. In the dark of the night it was almost a guarantee that someone… someone else would end up dead. And by morning… by morning it would be too late for sure._

' _Why the hell did we agree to this stupid plan in the first place?'_

 _Hot white rage washed over him, and his world was reduced to Mattis' retreating back. It was his stupid idea. He resented him with all of his being right then, and it took all of his self-control not to jump on him from behind and start strangling him, squeezing his throat with all his strength and pummeling him with his fists until…_

 _He must have made a step forward, because Fjosok was there, pushing him firmly against the wall._

" _Stop it," he said. "It's not going to bring Klippen back."_

 _Sturkas punched him._

 _It took a while for his actions to reconnect with the rational part of his mind as he stood there, fists clenched and chest heaving._

 _He took in Fjosok, who had fallen to the floor with the force of the blow and was now wiping the blood from his split lip. Tjegge, Knotas, Jutis and Joen stood nearby, looking shocked, miserable and lost._

 _Fjosok spit the blood onto the floor and looked up at him calmly, with a hint of reproach but also compassion, and, ashamed of his actions, he silently offered a hand to help him up. Fjosok accepted and clasped his shoulder in a gesture of forgiveness._

 _If only Sturkas could forgive just as easily._

 _He turned his head. Mattis was already gone._

Someone moved next to him, startling him from the memories he had been inadvertently pulled to, and, stepping absently aside to make room, Sturkas turned to see Tjegge lean over the bed, staring down as if in wonder. Sturkas could empathize.

It was hard to believe anyone could survive something like that. It felt surreal still, having him back on their side of the castle, breathing and warm and alive.

The corner of his mouth quirked up mirthlessly. Of course, the warm part was questionable. He reached out, tugged the corner of the blanket up to fit more snugly around Klippen's thin shoulders. It was probably unnecessary, but it did make him feel a little better.

Uncharacteristically, he felt an itch to do something to be of any use, but there was nothing to do for any of them but wait. It should have been relaxing. Instead it was maddening.

He sighed, then looked at Mattis again. Shadows were flickering over his face as he stared into the fire, unmoving. Sturkas felt it was only a matter of time before he stomped over to Hell's Gap, screaming blue murder at Borka and his robbers and demanding that they show their faces or else. For now, though, everything was quiet.

The fire cracked. The sound of footsteps announced Pelje's return.

No one spoke, but it wasn't a tense, suffocating silence that had been following them for weeks on end.

Sturkas decided he could live with it for a little longer.

* * *

Of course, Klippen had to get sick after his adventure.

He had slept through ten hours at least and woke to a raging fever and a terrible cough. Most of the time he didn't remember where he was. He fought the hands holding him down and forcing herb remedies through his lips, alternating between mumbling, coughing and screaming. The rest of the time he just lay there, his chest heaving, looking so small it made Sturkas' heart clench. He winced in sympathy every time the painful-sounding coughs wracked Klippen's thin frame and silently prayed to whatever deity he could think of, for all the good it could do a robber.

Still, Lovis' remedies did its job, and on the third day the fever broke. On the fourth day he was already sitting in bed, sipping the broth – it was yet too early for anything more substantial – and next morning Lovis sent them once again to fetch the water from the stream. Sturkas had volunteered, along with Knotas, and the hated task was done without arguing.

The water was heated and poured into the tub and Klippen was lowered into it. For the steam to ease his lungs, was the explanation, and for the hot water to help with the aching limbs. Lovis being Lovis though, she wouldn't miss the chance to clean up whoever she could when the opportunity was presented.

Mattis and Ronja winced when she produced the lice comb the next day, and Mattis quickly excused himself. Klippen just stared at it bemused as he was ordered to the bench. Remembering the tortured look on Mattis' face, Sturkas cringed.

It was… disconcerting, for someone who knew Klippen, to see him so freaking complacent while enduring an obviously painful ordeal. The Klippen he knew would whine over a stabbed toe as if it was a mortal wound. Now, though, he barely even winced, not a sound of complaint passed his lips and his eyes were distant even as the hair tearing was audible from where Sturkas sat. He exchanged glances with Tjorm and Tjegge, who had similar worried expressions. 'Must be just tired,' Tjorm mouthed, and Tjegge and Sturkas nodded their assent, though not entirely convinced.

Eventually Klippen doubled over with a cough, mumbled an apology and Lovis decided to be merciful and release him. He limped back to his bed, which had been moved away from the fire, crashed onto it and slept the rest of the day off in a dead slumber while the rest of them were sent back to work. They went, groaning and grumbling.

Things began to get back to normal. Or at least they seemed to.

Little less than a week after his return Klippen was sitting at the table, out of the linen nightshirt he had been wearing and back in his own mended clothes. He was a shadow of himself, still pale and painfully thin, and for the most part refused to talk or look at anyone but Ronja and Pelje. He would smile sometimes, though it didn't look like his smile – too small, too tentative, as if in doubt it should be there at all.

Give him time, Sturkas told himself, he's been through a lot. He just needs time to adjust. It's alright. He'll be alright.

And even if not everything was well yet, simply having him back was proving a bigger comfort than they imagined. So they joked and laughed louder and easier than they were able to in weeks, brought to tears by mundane things.

The change it brought in Ronja was especially uplifting, and Sturkas was overjoyed to see her smile and laugh that freely again. The grim air of the castle has been hard on all of them, but especially on the kid. She was pretty mature for her age and could deal with a lot of things, but it didn't mean that she had to, and her father's moods were tough enough to bear at best of times, not to mention when she got trapped in the castle with the rest of them and no longer had a place to escape to.

Sturkas paused at the last thought and snorted quietly. Apparently she did find a place to escape to – there were times when no one saw her for hours. Still, he wouldn't begrudge the kid her quiet getaway – who could blame her for not wanting to be around here?

Besides, since Klippen's return she spent most of the time by his side, mopping his brow with a wet cloth and humming softly – until her mother shooed her away to rest. After his fever broke the rest of them were ordered back to work, so Sturkas couldn't tell if she still disappeared sometimes – but in any case, it wasn't for long.

Fjosok distracted him from his thoughts by inserting an obscene joke, and he laughed out loud, forgetting about his troubles.

After dinner was finished they began gathering the plates. Klippen's was practically untouched.

Pelje reached for it, but Tjegge batted his hand away and shook his head, then moved the plate closer to Klippen.

"Finish it," he said harshly, then paused, looking startled, as if surprised at his own tone. Sturkas didn't know why he bothered. He always sounded like that.

"You are a twig already," Sturkas agreed. "A little more, and you'll be blown off your feet by a sneeze."

Klippen was eyeing the plate as if it was about to attack him, making no move to touch it.

Scalle-Per chuckled. "I'll pass your compliments on the cooking to Lovis."

Klippen twitched, stealing a glance at the matron. She stood by her table, cleaning the pot, disinterested in the conversation.

"It's the beans, isn't it?" Tjorm asked, nodding to himself. "Personally, I prefer the rice, but that mostly goes into morning porridge."

"Do you want something else?" Pelje asked hopefully. "I'm sure we can think of something."

Klippen made the mistake of looking at him. Struggle became visible on his face and Sturkas knew he was done for. Pelje wielded power in that puppy-dog gaze, sustained by the sole fact that it was ridiculously sincere and used without his knowing.

Klippen's shoulders slumped. "We're in the end of a freaking winter. It's not like we have many options. So beans it is."

He picked up the spoon and started eating with obvious reluctance. Pelje smiled at him and strode over to Lovis to hand over the plates. Sturkas had half-expected him to give Klippen a hug and a pat on the head. He shook his head free of the ridiculous image and plopped back down on the bench. Pelje sure was something.

Klippen finished about a half of the plate before pushing it away with a cringe. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he mumbled to no one in particular.

Sturkas raised an eyebrow. "It can't be that bad."

Klippen responded by taking several deep breaths.

"You are actually serious, aren't you," Sturkas muttered in disbelief and Tjorm moved away just in case.

Pelje usurped the vacated spot with no hesitation, put one hand between Klippen's shoulder blades and moved the plate away with the other. "Don't close your eyes. Breathe. Easy… Better?"

Klippen inhaled, exhaled, repeated the process. "Yeah…" he answered eventually. "Thanks. I don't think it's going to make a second appearance for now."

"Should have gone with bread or cheese," Pelje said. "Who knew you hated the beans so much?"

This startled a chuckle out of Klippen that quickly turned into a cough, but the rest of them joined the laugh only a moment later. It was… liberating.

Mattis' voice carried easily over the noise.

"So, Klippen," he said. "How did you manage to escape?"

That killed all the talk instantly, and everyone turned to observe the guy in question with vibrant curiosity. In Sturkas' opinion, Mattis sounded light and entirely non-threatening, yet for a moment Klippen looked almost terrified, gaze fixed on the table. Though Sturkas might have imagined the look, because cough ripped out of his chest the next second, not as painful-sounding as it was before, and he struggled with it for a few moments. His voice was quiet and a little hoarse when he spoke, but it didn't shake and the words were simple and honest.

"I didn't", he admitted. "They let me go."

Dead silence followed the words. Sturkas' mind was reeling. That didn't seem to add up. Why would Borka release his hold of such a useful bargaining tool?

His mind supplied a possible explanation almost immediately, but he shoved it angrily away. There was no way Klippen was talked into working with the other side. Although, if Klippen's thoughts ran in the same direction, it would explain his obvious hesitancy around them. Sturkas frowned. Was he afraid they were going to throw accusations at him after they just got him back?

Then he reconsidered that, instantly turning to Mattis. _Were_ they going to throw accusations at him after they just got him back? Knowing Mattis, it wasn't an unreasonable concern. Of course, there was also the possibility that the thought wouldn't occur to him. Tense, he observed his chieftain's expression, which was simply puzzled for now.

"Did they?" Mattis eventually asked. "Why?"

Klippen shrugged.

"The winter's ending. I suppose they have enough supplies to last them until spring. I was finally able to walk on my own two feet, and he did promise, did he not?"

Hmm. He did, indeed.

Mattis nodded, apparently accepting the answer as sufficient. He grinned good-naturedly, leaning forward and hitting his closed fist against the palm of his other hand.

"Did you manage to learn the layout? Where the main hall is, where they keep the supplies, anything useful?"

"Umm…" Klippen seemed to slouch even further at that. "The main hall is on the Western side, underneath the tower, I suppose. As for the rest… I didn't do much walking around and was too out of it at first to fish for clues, and then I couldn't figure out a way to do that without raising suspicion, so…"

"Nice thinking," Sturkas said, interrupting what seemed more and more like Klippen's attempt to justify himself. "If you did, they might have never let you out."

Tjorm nodded vigorously. "Besides, this information would still be useless to us with no way to get in."

"You did the right thing," Fjosok added. "You'd have risked yourself for nothing."

Mattis crossed his hands on his chest, leaning back, thoughtful but miraculously not angry. "Still, it leaves us back where we started."

' _Beats the alternative.'_

Mattis remained silent for a while, then said grimly. "What Borka did cannot remain unpunished. He's going to get what's his due, that's for certain. But there isn't much we can do about it now. We will wait until spring."

"Why do you even have to fight?" Ronja asked suddenly. Mattis scowled.

"He was the one who started it, not me. I am going to finish it. I won't rest until their lot is out of my ancestors' castle, I swear on their graves! Even if every one of Borka's robbers has to perish in the process."

"But what if they don't perish?" Ronja insisted. "What if your robbers do?"

For a moment it seemed like Mattis didn't have an answer, and against his will Sturkas was dragged back into the horror of one of his plans failing. He grudgingly had to admit that the kid had a point.

But then he remembered the uncertainty of the weeks that followed, the fear, the worry and the feeling of a bone-thin body in his arms, emaciated to the point of reminding a skeleton, and the anger burned anew. It was a necessary task. Borka and his robbers were an evil, a threat that had to be eradicated.

Apparently Mattis arrived to the same conclusion, because his features turned to stone.

"They kept one of my men hostage and starved him, depriving him of the same food they demanded in exchange of his life. Having these vipers as neighbors is a bigger risk, I'd say."

"It wasn't that bad," Klippen objected.

"Did they beat you?" Skalle-Per asked directly, with no preamble. Klippen paled and inhaled sharply, doubling over with a cough again.

Ice burning rage hit Sturkas, so potent he almost choked on it. For a moment he lost the ability to think, before his mind sharpened with deadly focus.

…How. Dare. They. How the bloody, burning, harpy-infested hell _dare they_.

Three months after the fall, Klippen was still limping. He must have been unable to even stand when they…

Injured, defenseless, outnumbered, trapped in the enemy territory with no chance of escaping, starved to the point of being a sack of bones and now this…

A fair, honest agreement indeed.

He was going to kill each and every one of them. Single-handedly if he had to.

"Don't defend these scoundrels," Tjegge told Klippen through gritted teeth, and there were affirmative noises from all around the hall.

There was no, no way they were letting this slide.

* * *

Klippen was tired, confused, irritable and wanted to be left alone for five damn minutes. They were well-meaning, but he didn't know what to say to them any more than he knew what to do about this whole situation, he wasn't good at thinking on his feet and their hovering was driving him insane. He sighed in relief when Lovis chased everyone but him, Mattis, Scalle-Per and Ronja out of the hall and used this chance to escape back into his old room under the guise of wanting to see how it fared. He waved off the offers to accompany him, the hope of finally being alone boosting his speed and making him ignore the angry complaints of his leg, and conquered the stairs determinedly. His newfound strength was gone by the time he managed the last step, but the victory heartened him as he fell rather than pushed at the room's door.

It hadn't changed a bit. The beds were still in their places, unkempt just as their hosts, and small specs of dust floated in the sunshine. It was noticeably cooler than the main hall too, but the familiarity warmed him, and he felt a little more peaceful at once.

He settled at the window, his elbows at the sill, noting that the snow seemed to melt somewhat in these few days. Soon it would be gone entirely.

He had been frustrated with everyone, but mostly with himself, by how weak and easily panicked by things he was recently. Along with physical exhaustion, it was utterly draining to be torn apart by his doubts and misgivings - especially in the tight quarters, constantly surrounded by people and trying to keep up the facade of normalcy. Uncertainty followed his every step, made him second-guess every word spoken to him.

What if everyone thought he was useless and didn't want him around anymore, but let him stay out of pity? If so, how long would it be before they finally got fed up with him and let their true feeling show?

What if they blamed him for having to make a temporary truce with Borka and lose supplies to him? Worse, what if they thought he was somehow in league with him and helped him out willingly?

It might have sounded a little paranoid, but that was the hardest part, because Klippen wasn't sure that he wasn't.

The fact remained and it stung. If it hadn't been for Borka's men, he would have still been lying in the bottom of that pit, by now long dead. It wouldn't have been a quick death. No, it would be a long, torturous, cold agony, and he would have suffered it alone.

They never came back for him.

He had thought that he was over that in Borka's fort and he hadn't felt an ounce of it on the day he walked back, as his mind was preoccupied with other things, but now, back in his castle and in the company of his friends, the feeling returned and refused to fade, biting into him like a leech, constantly reminding him of what had happened.

They left him for dead.

He was sad, angry, betrayed, doubly angry and betrayed that they didn't think anything was wrong and deadly exhausted from it all.

But he was also guilty of treason, in a way, because a great injustice had been inflicted on him - or at least everyone thought it had - and he was expected to be angry and to want vengeance for it. Instead, it was as if all his previous animosity towards Borka and his robbers was gone. He could no longer find it in himself to see them moving in as the major crime like he used to or to want them out of the second half of the castle.

He had seen the way they lived. They had needed the food. They had needed the shelter. It wasn't an act of humiliation and hostility - it was a necessity. They wouldn't have survived without it.

But even as his views have changed, he couldn't find the strength and the courage to actively defend them. They wouldn't listen. They would see him as a traitor. They would despise him or worse, throw him out. They certainly didn't have much problem leaving him behind before. And then he would most probably die, either by soldiers, cold or hunger, unable as he was to fend for himself right now. His leg throbbed as if in reminder and he rubbed at it absently.

He had a close brush with a cold lonely death just recently and had no wish to repeat the experience.

Coward, coward, coward...

And to be caught off guard by a question like that! Scalle-Per, the sly old fox, knew exactly where to hit. Somehow, he didn't think that answering 'Only a few times' would have made the situation any better, but maybe he should have answered like that. And added that it had mostly stopped when the kid witnessed it, lectured them and threatened to tell his father. And that one time Borka caught the perpetrator red-handed he'd punched him so hard he had fallen to the floor and followed the punch with a scolding to behold.

After that, the abuse had stopped entirely and he had been subjected to a very grudging, but surprisingly sincere apology along with the explanation of being caught in the moment and a promise that it would never happen again.

Klippen couldn't help but ponder what Mattis' response would be if the situations were reversed.

Maybe he would bring up the topic later, once everyone has calmed down, and try to explain. He remembered the stone faces, the angry determination, how quickly his attempt to assuage everyone has made everything worse and cringed. Then again...

He should have just kept his big mouth shut. He banged his head on his folded wrists. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

But who would talk Mattis out of continuing this foolish feud then?

He groaned, pulling at his hair with both hands. He hated this entire situation.

Life was so much simpler before he fell into Hell's Gap.

But now he was stuck to having to make a decision. He had already admitted to himself that it wasn't a question of if. It was a question of how and when. But he wasn't good at strategy, he wasn't good at planning and he had absolutely no idea how to even begin to approach this. He groaned louder.

A small hand touched his shoulder and he jumped, panic shooting up his throat. His body got seized by a cough and he almost slipped to the floor, the hand bracing him. By devil, he was a wreck. He struggled to bring the cough under control, managed, sighed, rubbed his forehead and turned, plastering on what he hoped to be a sincere smile.

Big dark eyes looked up at him, worried. The hand was still on his shoulder.

"Lill-Klippen... Are you alright?"

'What kind of a question is that?' his fed up mind screamed out even as he reached for his most confident tone and smile. "I'm fine. You just… started me. Um… Did you want something?"

Dammit, he was still stuttering. Could he do anything right?

"You seemed to be in pain," Ronja lowered her hand and climbed up on the chest next to him, as if acting like a skittish animal when caught off guard was the most natural thing in the world. She didn't try to touch him again though. "Is something bothering you?"

"I'm fine," he repeated awkwardly, trying to sound convincing. "Just... thinking."

She pondered him for a moment, then nodded, seeming to accept the answer. Her eyes looked like her mother's when she eyed him piercingly like that. Give her a few years, and none of them would have a chance of hiding anything from her. That is, if they still did now. They might be just tricking themselves.

He was expecting a barrage of questions and already steeled himself. Instead, she suddenly hugged him.

She didn't throw herself at him like she normally would; instead, she gently wrapped her arms around his waist, as if afraid to cause him pain, and buried her face in his chest. He melted despite himself, returning the embrace.

"I'm so glad you're back," she said, sounding close to tears.

"Sorry to make you worry," he answered, fully meaning it.

She squeezed him tighter and her shoulders shook under his palms. He felt terrible. But when she pulled away, she was smiling. It wasn't a wide joyful grin, but it was happy none the less, and something eased in his chest.

"So… Pelje said you learned to ski," he said, suddenly lamenting the fact that he'd missed it. "Care to tell me more about it?"

She smiled wider, launching into her tale, and being back didn't seem like such a burden anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

His entire body hurt, a terrible, constant pain spreading with his heartbeat and washing over his ribs, leg and torso in an a fiery unrelenting stream of agony. His heart raced. He couldn't make out his surroundings. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He breathed in short shallow hard-earned gasps underlined with an occasional unintentional sob. His mouth was dry, his throat raw and scratchy. He clutched at the skin he was lying with a desperate grip, his body taut as a string. His eyes burned. He felt hot and cold at the same time, his face blazing with heat, yet a chill running along his back, making him tremble.

"Be quiet," a woman hissed. Lovis? No, something was wrong. Her voice could be stern, but never this biting and filled with such venom. "You'll wake everyone up."

It took some time for the woman to become visible from the haze that surrounded them. Undis. What? Why? Why was she there? It was probably important. He couldn't focus, couldn't remember anything. He eyed the water jar in her hands with longing, wishing to drain it and to pour the rest over his face to put out the fire there.

She scowled at him and took a step back. "Water's scarce here. Don't think we'll be wasting a drop more than we absolutely have to on you."

He tried to speak and only managed "I-" _I can do with snow. Please._ He didn't question how he knew it was winter, but didn't remember how Undis got to their part of the castle or where Lovis was. His focus narrowed down to one word: water. Water. _Water_.

She scowled deeper, clutched the jar to her chest as if he was going to snatch it and walked away, leaving him alone in his hell.

* * *

It seemed like exhaustion settled in Klippen's bones deeply enough to stay there for the rest of his life, leaving him weak and achy, not to mention constantly cold. And somehow he still had trouble sleeping. He sat on the bench with his back against the table and his arms folded against his chest, staring unseeingly at the fire, the familiar faint chill crawling up his back and spreading along his shoulders and limbs.

A female silhouette moved into his line of vision and he flinched, drawing back from it, before the memories and recognition caught up. He bit his lip and stared at his lap, waiting for disparaging comments directed at his courage to be done with. There was only an expectant silence instead.

Right. Lovis.

Tentatively Klippen raised his head to look at her unreadable face. He was somehow surprised to see a steaming mug handed to him, though he really shouldn't have been. Lovis, he reminded himself.

She waited until his grip around the mug was secure enough before letting go. If she made note of how he made a conscious effort not to touch her fingers she didn't show it.

"I…" he managed, thinking he probably had to say something. She kept looking at him with no hint of annoyance or impatience. "Thank you." He couldn't quite work up a smile.

She lingered maybe for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, then nodded and walked away.

He held the cup between his palms, savoring the warmth and inhaling the herbal scent, his throat closing and his eyes burning. He screwed them shut, tightening his hands on the cup to keep them from shaking.

Klippen hated this newfound tendency towards panicking and crying about completely mundane things. It wasn't like him at all. Maybe it was something that would wear off when he got better, or so he hoped. His only saving grace was that the hall was mostly deserted at this time of the morning and no one was there to witness how stupid and pathetic he looked.

With an immense concentration of will he warded the sobs off, then actually drank the brew in an attempt to distract himself further. It was surprisingly pleasant, hot but not scalding, fresh and a little sweet. He let out a relieved sigh, feeling calmer, and took another sip.

On a whim he looked around, just to make sure there were no witnesses of his momentary breakdown, and dark eyes met his. He froze. Lovis was watching him from where she was stirring the steaming pot of morning porridge, her face impassive. He shivered, told himself it was due to the chill and turned to the fire again, keeping himself purposefully still as the rustle of cloth gave away Lovis' movement. He very deliberately did not flinch this time as she came close, but his muscles tensed against his control.

"Get up," she said. Resigned to his fate, he did, his body alien and stiff.

Once again he was surprised when the weight of a blanket settled around his shoulders and back, instantly comforting. He turned to stare at her, bemused. Something flickered over her face and she shoved at him. "Sit." The push was notably mild enough not to make him keel over. It didn't take much force to make him lose his footing those days, and to be fair, he wasn't exactly sure he'd have a chance to stay upright even at his normal strength if she really put her mind to being physical.

He complied, still staring at her. She tugged at the edges of the blanket, the gesture almost absent in how practiced it was, pulling the fabric up so that it fit more snugly around his shoulders. It made perfect face to do that, really, seeing that his hands were still occupied and the wool would just slide off otherwise. Yet something about this situation just refused to connect in his mind. Stunned into silence, he couldn't even thank her as she returned to her cooking once again.

Had Lovis always been so… motherly with them – well, excluding the obvious scolding for misbehavior part – and he hadn't noticed, or was this something new? It bothered him that he couldn't tell. It bothered him that he didn't know why it bothered him. So he busied himself with drinking the brew, staring resolutely at the fire and not at the matron, until the rest of the robbers trudged drowsily into the hall.

* * *

There was a cool cloth oh his forehead. His eyes focused enough to make out a red-haired silhouette, and for an insane moment he believed that it was Borka sitting by his bedside. But as the mist cleared, the hair gained shape – not the crow's nest, but a helmet – and the features turned out to be familiar, but much more youthful, the build smaller and slimmer.

Snake Spawn.

The boy said nothing as their eyes met, only inclined his head, a gesture of bird-like curiosity, and procured a wooden scoop seemingly out of nowhere. Miraculously it was filled with water. The boy was oddly patient as he let him drink, only allowing small sips, no matter how much he wanted to drain all of it at once, but the task was finished eventually. Klippen expected him to leave when he was done. Instead, the boy put aside the scoop and began to whistle. The tune was unfamiliar but oddly precise, easy to remember.

It wasn't until later that he questioned the oddity of the enemy chief's son appointed as a babysitter to a member of a rival robber gang and wondered if it really was that boring out there or if the boy was being punished for something.

* * *

Klippen watched Ronja dance animatedly and frowned. He could have sworn she had been humming while sitting by his side during his illness and that the tune was familiar. But surely it couldn't be true.

Must have been his fevered mind playing tricks on him.

* * *

"Why is it our turn again?" Sturkas objected, slamming his fist onto the table. "Fjosok and I did it a few times in a row that one time, and now you think you can just dump this onto us whenever you like?"

"So did Knotas and I," Tjorm pointed out from across the table, sounding like he was trying to be reasonable but failing miserably.

"You didn't even volunteer for that. Lovis volunteered you, and you had to only make one round at the very beginning," Sturkas continued.

"Knotas did volunteer and went multiple times," Pelje interjected cheerfully from the corner and was ignored.

"So what? You volunteer once and you get to skip your turn whenever you feel like it?"

"Not once, but twice! I'm not skipping my turn if it isn't my turn!"

"Has anyone been keeping tabs on water rounds recently?" Fjosok asked from Sturkas' left. "I haven't been paying much attention to them."

"We did, but then they got all confused," Tjorm pointed out. "With all the switches we did and that extra water we needed and the rounds we had to make during the day."

"Mostly me," Sturkas mumbled.

"So we decided we needed a new schedule to keep things clear. And since we work in teams, it's been decided it's your and Sturkas' turn today."

"Decided?" Fjosok frowned. "Who decided it exactly?"

"A vote, of course."

"That doesn't sound fair," Fjosok said. "All of you have an ulterior motive. We should draw instead."

"Sturkas always ends up losing the draw anyway," Tjorm said. "This saves us all the time."

"This from a guy who ended up losing three times in a row a month ago."

"Which means I still made more rounds than you."

Sturkas opened his mouth and closed it again. Unexpectedly to himself, Klippen laughed. It was unusual to see Sturkas cornered into silence, and by Tjorm of all people.

They turned their heads to stare at him, startled, except for Sturkas who looked annoyed. Unconsciously Klippen pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, but it took no effort at all to keep his voice light. "You know if you keep this up Lovis will just find more work for all of us."

"I never claimed to be a hero." Sturkas' expression lost a bit of its edge. "If I'm going down, I'm taking all of you with me."

Fjosok elbowed him sharply in the stomach. Sturkas rubbed at the offended spot and glared. "What the hell is your problem?"

Fjosok stared at him, intense and unimpressed. Sturkas deflated and hunched on himself a little, then turned to look sheepishly at Klippen. Klippen blinked back at him, bemused. Sturkas deflated even further, grabbed the buckets and stomped for the exit. "Let's go, Fjosok." Then, at a much higher volume: "It's for the last freaking time, Tjorm!"

The heavy doors slammed shut behind them, leaving a puzzled Klippen to contemplate what the hell just happened.

* * *

If he had to name one good thing that came out of his enforced absence, the cold he had to go through two weeks ago and the cough he still suffered from, it would be the ability to avoid the snow bath that the rest of the robbers were subjected to. Apparently he looked pathetic enough that no one even suggested it. He didn't mind for once.

He still ended up getting the haircut, but it seemed like such a small thing that he hadn't even tried to object, just shrugged and went with it.

"You seem pretty calm about it, unlike the rest of the merry band," Skalle-Per commented as he worked. "Aren't you scared I'll cut all of it off and leave you bald?"

"What a silly thing to be scared of, old man," Klippen snapped at him out of habit, without much bite. "My hair will grow back, unlike yours."

Predictably, Skalle-Per only laughed at this. "Young people these days, no respect for their elders at all. Be careful, these old hands are shaking so badly they could always slip and cut something they shouldn't."

Klippen rolled his eyes. "Lovis would never let you anywhere near scissors were your hands that unsteady."

"It warms this old heart to see you put such trust in our matron," was the response.

Klippen quieted at this, unsure what the old fox was fishing for this time, if at all, and not trusting himself not to put his foot into his mouth.

He didn't get his ear cut off. He did, however, end up essentially bald, which was annoying because he was always cold already, even without the chill now prickling at his head. Skalle-Per had smiled at him evilly. When he exited the barn to return to the castle, Ronja and Mattis laughed at him till they teared up. The corners of Lovis' mouth curled up slightly.

He ran his palm along his scalp, smiling ruefully and shaking his head. "All that torture with the comb, and for nothing."

Back in the castle, he grabbed the blanket in an unfortunately practiced motion and tucked it higher around his neck, taking a spot near the fire. The rest of their sulking gang filled in pretty soon, followed by guffaws. He took in their appearance and couldn't hold back a chuckle himself.

If he looked even nearly as ridiculous as Sturkas with his hair shaved off, Mattis and Ronja's reactions were more than understandable. Even though he was also a target, along with the freshly bathed robbers, he found he didn't really mind.

It was a good kind of laughter, pure mirth and no malice about it. It wasn't even close to…

He shook his head, bringing himself back into the present and to a wonderful smell spreading through the hall.

* * *

The closer spring was, the more restless the robbers became. It had its upsides and downsides to it. The upside was that the air was less depressed and more lively, filled with anticipation. The downside was that said anticipation could easily turn into impatience, especially now that it was mixed with the thirst for vengeance.

If Klippen thought about it, it could almost count as a compliment, the fact that Mattis was so used to him evading most things that were thrown at him that he didn't think twice about doing so in his anger. They were both surprised when a heavy wooden mug connected with his forehead with a crack and he went down from the sheer force of it, stars in his eyes.

He lay on his back, staring at the stone ceiling, expecting the roaring and the raging to continue as they always did. Instead heavy and awkward silence fell.

He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. Quick footsteps came close, familiar boots entered his line of vision and he was hefted suddenly into the air by the upper arms. His heart skipped a beat as he half-expected to be flung into the wall next, but before his mind caught up he was already lowered onto his feet. World spinning, he grabbed at the forearms supporting him to keep himself upright. But when Mattis' face swam into view, he flinched and jerked back before he could wonder if it was a good idea. Maybe to make up for that one lost beat, his heart started racing, slamming desperately and repeatedly against his ribcage as if it wanted out, and maybe to keep it inside, his ribcage tightened and it was suddenly hard to breathe. The corners of the room darkened ominously.

 _What if he knows, what if he suspects you, what if he thinks it's your fault, what if he thinks you're useless and wants to get rid of you, what if…_

Released abruptly, he slumped to the floor, and the face was replaced.

"Breathe." Lovis. Calm, no-nonsense, practical Lovis who thankfully didn't try to touch him. She was kneeling next to him, and why was she telling him to…

Oh. He was hyperventilating. That explained it.

He struggled to bring his breathing and heartbeat under control, focusing on her serene face and dark attentive eyes.

 _Where has Mattis gone? Is he close? What will he make out if this? Will he guess that…_

No, no, this wasn't helping. Best not to think about it. Focus. Think about something else.

Lovis' eyes reflected the light from the fireplace, just like the metal ornaments in her hair and clothes. The light was flickering as the wood cracked. The floor he was sitting on was hard and cold. His forehead throbbed angrily.

Slowly, his gasps for air went down to a manageable level, leaving him even more exhausted then before.

He nodded at her and she gave him a small smile, getting up and offering him her hand. He allowed her to pull him to his feet, supporting his weight when the hall tipped again, and to guide him to the bench. Gingerly, not meeting anyone's eyes, he reached to touch the spot where the mug crashed into him and winced. This was going to be one hell of a bump.

There was a sound of the doors opening and closing again. The hall was ominously silent. Why was no one saying anything?

He chanced a look and witnessed the robbers in various stages of glowering. Some of them were glowering at the table, some at the wall, and some at the fireplace. Skalle-Per was eyeing him shrilly. Klippen couldn't read his expression. Mattis looked like he wanted to throw something again but was holding himself back for once. Pelje and Tjorm were giving him looks of open concern.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling irritation stir. "For the love of… it's not the first time any of us got hit by flying objects around here. Nor will it be the last. I'm fine. Whatever it is you are doing, just stop."

They were all looking at him now. Concern on Pelje and Tjorm's faces deepened while Mattis' expression was even darker than before. Belatedly realizing whom he had been addressing, Klippen shrank under the stare, which for some reason made Mattis even angrier. Thankfully Lovis chose that moment to enter the hall and to press something cool wrapped in fabric against his forehead, instructing him to hold it there. She must have gone outside to gather snow.

Lovis gave Mattis a stern look and he subsided, still fuming.

The snow stung initially. The mug must have broken skin. Soon, however, the cold provided a much welcomed contrast against the fire spreading across his head, and he exhaled in relief.

* * *

Sturkas gripped the handle of his mug so tightly it hurt. A vile, unpleasant chill moved in his gut.

It was bad enough to see Klippen take the hit, but on itself it could have been tolerable. There was nothing new about Mattis throwing things around and occasionally at his robbers whenever he was in a mood. No one, except for Skalle-Per and obviously Lovis and Ronja, had been exempt from it. And while Klippen himself had always been good enough at dodging whatever was hurled at him, he was right: it wasn't unusual for hits to land and be mostly put behind a minute later.

While he was irritated with Mattis for forgetting that Klippen's agility was hampered, he realized that the chief probably hadn't meant to actually hurt him if the fleeting vaguely horrified expression was anything to go by.

What was more troubling was how quietly Klippen had gone down. He hadn't cried out, not even in surprise, hadn't groaned or whimpered a single time, hadn't objected or complained or questioned the abuse. To say that he had been terrified of Mattis would be an understatement of the year, and still he hadn't made a sound except for the fast breathing. He hadn't even struggled apart from that first jump.

It would look unnatural on anyone. It was downright disturbing on Klippen who had always been, by nature, a whiner. Sturkas' suspicions were confirmed. Something was very very wrong, and it didn't take Skalle-Per to deduce that the wrongness started with the winter Klippen spent with Borka and his gang.

Klippen had expected to be beaten, that was obvious. Maybe this wasn't something he had learned at the Northern fort. They did, after all, fight a lot, and Mattis had always been prone to random bursts of violence. However, the quiet, almost subdued response was definitely new. Klippen had embraced their fights, had, in fact, initiated more than a few of them. And while he had always been reasonably wary of Mattis, he knew how to get around his temper a little better than most and he had never had panic attacks in his presence before, even on the receiving end of his outbursts.

It took more than one hit for one's reaction to change so drastically.

Had crying out made it worse? Had his pleas to stop been mocked or ignored or silenced with more abuse? Had the bastards enjoyed the silent panic and terror in his face? Was this how they amused themselves to pass long boring winter evenings?

The chill in his gut turned into heat as it reached his chest, and he found it hard to breathe through the rage that compressed his lungs. As an exhausting exercise of will he kept his breaths even, trying not to let his anger show, and after a while it abated a little.

To distract himself he looked around the hall and saw his turmoil reflected in most people around him. They seemed to have reached similar conclusions, and the only thing that varied in their grim expressions was intensity.

Sturkas couldn't wait for spring to come full force.


End file.
